


Afghanistan, House of Pleasures

by butimnotdeadyet



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Barry broke the world, F/M, It's all his fault, Sara misses Lenny, future/fix it, im not bitter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 07:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7791487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butimnotdeadyet/pseuds/butimnotdeadyet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sara, choosen because of her familiarity with the culture, is put on a mission to recover sensitive informaiton that was missplaced in a 2017 Afghanistan pleasure house. Once inside, and at the risk of outing her more 'deviant' tendencies, she is extorted by a familiar face into . . . a slumber party?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afghanistan, House of Pleasures

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer- I don't own them. [But if I did they would probably be running a foster home, and co-parenting a dozen young delinquents, and drinking hot cocoa, and having cute lunch dates were all the local cops keep trying to arrest Len, and they would have circular arguement with the heroes about how best to deal with hostage situations (cuz Len and Ollie really just want to shoot people; "I can just knock them out with solid hit to the head." "That won't teach them not to do it again, but an arrow to the shoulder, on the other hand . . ." "Man, all I have to do is run in and grab them and we're good to get to Joe's for dinner." "Scarlet, what good is being a Legend if I still don't get to freeze every person that annoys me? That was my bank to rob."), and . . .]

“So. . . how long are you here for?”

 

Sara started before stepping into the room fully, eyes jumping to the corner of the large room before they could properly finish their initial scan. There was the shape of a man lounging on a thick floor mat in the dim suite.

 

“I’m sorry?” She was surprised, not just by his smooth, unaccented English, but the abruptness it held- addressing her before she had so much as entered her given room. Politeness was a fixture in The House; no patron, guest, or working persons was an exception, yet this man deemed himself immune to the ire the masters would rain down upon him if she were a more dastardly sort.

 

“You don’t have to answer, of course,” Sara could  _ hear _ the eye roll, dripping with condescension, that accompanied the tone, “It is just very rare that I get a chance to talk to an American- especially one trained by the League.” A rustle of fabric; a shrug. Physical expression in place of verbal, also frowned upon. “Figured I would risk my head in the off chance that some meager conversation may be made. Before we commence, of course- or after, I’m not . . . picky.” 

 

Sara’s hand slipped from where it had been holding the door open, closing out the last of the light from the corridor, leaving them alone in the large chamber with only a half dozen candles. The phrasing was simple enough, nothing labelable or distinct- like his voice, perfectly nondescript, no regional inflection or telling contractions- but that word. . .  

_ ‘Canary, what makes you think I could ever be so . . . picky.’ _

She deflected the urge to squeeze her eyes shut at the memory, choosing the remain present- aware- with the stranger lounging across the room.

 

“And what, friend, would be commencing?” She mirrored his tone carefully, but was willing to allow some of her honest, questioning tone through; admitting that she would play his game- no endearments in The House, after all- but that she would need more direction.

 

“Hmm, I had heard that the Assassins were . . . reserved,” he purred, something deep in his throat catching on each syllable, “I had assumed the American, the once Beloved, would be the exception. My mistake.” Until the comment dropped from his mouth, without scorn but also without praise, her noted past had gone unmentioned. Not one of the Masters she had met with or any of the two dozen patrons she had encountered since had so much as given her uncovered head (as it had been since she had first stepped of the busy street in Herat and into the chain of tunnels leading to the House) a derisive look, let alone reference her history as a woman’s lover. But apparently she and, by default, Nyssa were known to have more renown than she had been lead to believe.

 

At her silence, he took his mark- rising on bare feet to a height far greater than her own and striding across the stone floors until he stood between the room’s velvet covered chaise and bed, near enough that she could make out a glint of gold against the darkness of his clothes and a flash of pale skin from where two hands folded together, comfortably suspended in front of his waist. 

“ Taer Al Asfar, this is a glorified whore house. Tell me, why do you think would they send a slave in silk robes to the room of their most revered guest?” 

 

Sara found herself once again bottling a reaction that threatened to burst forth; talk of human self-ownership, let alone liberation, was grounds for immediate removal from any House’s premise, even for a _ revered _ guest at the title House. She swallowed the bile rising in the throat and began what she hoped to be a more acceptable refute.

“I don’t-” 

 

“You should know, I have been instructed to remain in your quarters or by your side throughout the duration of your stay. You cannot send me away, nor do I suggest you try. You would not want to  _ live up to your reputation  _ here, I assure you. So you best make use of me.” He took a controlled step to his right, upper body now pressing against a post of the bed with one hand shifting to tug at the loose knot of silk resting over the point of his hip. “Unless you would like for me to return to the Masters and tell them of you rebuttal of their kind offer? That you instead wish to be left  _ alone _ for the duration of your stay?” He leaned forward, features still barely distinguishable from the stone wall behind him, but with a clear challenge in his voice. 

 

Sara worked her fingers on the edge of a knife tucked deep into the pleats of her long skirt. He was working an angle, and a good one. Any visitor who would not partake in the offered ‘distractions and entertainment’ were found suspect by other patrons and the Masters alike. Here in the House, men were were free to partake as they wished- a novelty in its own right- but while the female patrons were equally encouraged to take unbinding companions, they were  _ never  _ to be women, free or owned. Which he knew, without a doubt, would cost Sara dearly in the department of trust and discretion within the House. Even to imply such a predisposition would mean Sara would spend that last leg of her insurgency breaking free whatever bottomless pit they deemed worthy of her sin. 

 

She needed his silence on her descents with The House’s practices- a state of mind that he seemed to be well aware of before he even made his play- while she was at a loss for what this man, a  _ kept soul  _ as called by Master Aarmaan, would ask of her in return. 

 

He must have caught the ever-so-subtle movement caused by her hand shifting the fabric and known it to be what it was, a tell of resignation. “Now that we are one the same page,” a smile played through the tone, mocking and smug, “I will be keeping my robe on for the moment and  _ we _ ,” and long finger gestured between them, “will have a nice, long talk about what remains of civilized society on the other side of the world.”

 

Conversation. He  _ actually _ wanted conversation in exchange for silence. She nodded, that even if he couldn't make out the movement on his own- which she was believed he could- the sconce to her left gave enough light.

 

“Good.” He shifted his weight so that a hand was splayed across the mattress to his left a his face caught the light for the first time since Sara entered the room. 

“Have a seat, _ sayidati _ .” 

 

Sara’s tongue- already prepared to lash out at having been so formally addressed caught in her throat as blue-green eyes bore into her own and Leonard Snart impatiently grabbed her hand to haul her towards the bed. 

**Author's Note:**

> Taer Al Asfar- My chosen spelling (there are some variations) for Sara's League name, The Canary  
> sayidati- Arabic for 'madam', 'my lady'  
> )correct me if I'm wrong(
> 
> *jazz hands* 
> 
> This WILL have a second part but I can't tell you how soon.  
> Feel free to point out mistakes, as they are all my own.
> 
> -I wish you many Cap Can cuddles,  
> Gin


End file.
